The sudden silence strikes like a blow and Natasha's fingers curve nervously around the small (but deadly) throwing knife that's tucked away safely in a holster at the small of her back. It's the one weapon that Clint let her keep (against Fury's express orders, though Natasha doesn't know that) once they got themselves situated in the tower. An exercise in trust from both of them. Her trusting him enough to surrender her weapons. Him trusting her enough to leave her one.
She has to force her fingers to unfurl from the handle. The silence is disconcerting after all that noise, but it's hardly cause for alarm. Annoyed at herself for being so skittish, Natasha tugs her tanktop back into place, neatly covering the handle of the small blade. A wardrobe full of expensive clothes she can't remember owning, and she's still wearing the clothes she bought for herself during these two months or so. Today it's black jeans and a solid black tanktop, her (still-too-short-dammit) hair drawn up in a tight pony tail. Though she knows the clothes are hers (because her taste hasn't changed that much), wearing them still feels wrong. Like she's dressing up in someone else's clothes.
"Hi," she says. She rubs her hands absently over her jeans. She knows who he is, now that the goggles are perched on his forehead rather than covering his eyes. And she can't quite hide her surprise.
Ever since Clint filled her in on the Avengers, the Internet has been Natasha's best friend and it's not been difficult to find pictures and footage of Tony Stark. Billionaire, super-hero, and amazingly decadent American. He confirms every bit of anti-American propaganda she was ever fed by the Red Room. Or at least he does on paper. Standing in front of him now, she's not so sure anymore.
Her eyes slip down to the blue glow shining through the worn fabric of his t-shirt before she looks up to meet his gaze. "You're... not what I expected."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-06-13 09:25 pm (UTC)She has to force her fingers to unfurl from the handle. The silence is disconcerting after all that noise, but it's hardly cause for alarm. Annoyed at herself for being so skittish, Natasha tugs her tanktop back into place, neatly covering the handle of the small blade. A wardrobe full of expensive clothes she can't remember owning, and she's still wearing the clothes she bought for herself during these two months or so. Today it's black jeans and a solid black tanktop, her (still-too-short-dammit) hair drawn up in a tight pony tail. Though she knows the clothes are hers (because her taste hasn't changed that much), wearing them still feels wrong. Like she's dressing up in someone else's clothes.
"Hi," she says. She rubs her hands absently over her jeans. She knows who he is, now that the goggles are perched on his forehead rather than covering his eyes. And she can't quite hide her surprise.
Ever since Clint filled her in on the Avengers, the Internet has been Natasha's best friend and it's not been difficult to find pictures and footage of Tony Stark. Billionaire, super-hero, and amazingly decadent American. He confirms every bit of anti-American propaganda she was ever fed by the Red Room. Or at least he does on paper. Standing in front of him now, she's not so sure anymore.
Her eyes slip down to the blue glow shining through the worn fabric of his t-shirt before she looks up to meet his gaze. "You're... not what I expected."